Helene's wrath leads to a rediscovery of the joy of reading

For a few years in my life, more than four decades ago, I lived in an older home on Main Street in Drexel which had one overwhelmingly attractive feature – a small, wood-burning fireplace in the living room.

When the Atlanta Braves baseball season ended – and it always ended early – the focus shifted from the den, where the TV and its basic cable package resided, to the living room and to the fireplace.

Don’t remember who my wood merchant was all those years ago, but I do remember that I had each delivered load split between one-third pine and two-thirds hardwood.

The quick-burning pine served to rapidly lay down a layer of hot coals in the grate, ensuring that the hardwood, when added, burned slowly and smoothly and with a hot blue flame.

Each autumn, the first fire of the season was as highly anticipated as the feast of Thanksgiving or the celebration of Christmas, for it meant the chill, frosty nights of fall had returned to the Foothills.

I can easily recall the components of a perfect day back then: a long hike in either the South Mountains or the Blue Ridge when the woods were aflame with color; a warm and filling comfort food supper (think country-style steak and mashed potatoes) and an evening spent comfortably before the fire with a good book in hand.

It was in the glow of that fire that I read my first Stephen King novel in the autumn of 1980, “The Stand.” The epic confrontation between good and evil infected even my dreams with images of Mother Abigail and fluttering crows.

The warmth of that room with the fireplace as its centerpiece was home for my exploration of the historical novels of Gore Vidal – “Washington, D.C.,” “Burr,” and “1876.”

And the flickering firelight on the walls set the scene for the rereading of my favorite authors from high school and college – Thomas Wolfe, Ray Bradbury, Harper Lee, and Ernest Hemingway.

Thoughts of those nights spent engrossed in good literature in front of the fireplace came flooding back when an unruly visitor from the south named Helene knocked out both internet and cell service at our home for 90 hours or so.

Vanished for those 90 hours was cable TV and its plethora of sports events – no MLB playoffs, no NFL contests, and, most depressing for a Saturday in October, no college football.

Gone also were the streaming services and the light, if bawdy, British comedies my wife and I love so much, as well as the dark murder mystery, “Vera,” and the kill ’em with a laugh “Midsomer Murders.”

And, of course, also removed from the pastime platter was the internet and all its diverse offerings, from the lofty discourse of The New York Times website to the swirling cesspool of misinformation and moronic political blather that is Facebook.

So, what’s a man to do?

Well, this man picked up a book. And then another. And another. And another. Once the DTs had subsided from being forced to go cold turkey on all electronic media, I found myself fully immersed in the joy of reading for the first time in years.

“Where Rivers Change Direction,” a memoir by Mark Spragg, brought to life the experience of growing up in the high country of Wyoming.

“Papi: My Story,” an autobiography by David Ortiz, detailed his rise, in the most profane terms possible, from an impoverished childhood to MLB stardom.

“The Little Paris Bookshop” was a poignant tale of love and loss, highlighted by evocative descriptions of the countryside in the south of France.

And finally, Tom Wolfe’s riotous look at life among the rich and famous in New York City during the late 1980s, “Bonfire of the Vanities.”

I became so engrossed in Wolfe’s tale, in fact, that even when the electronic services came trickling back on – first cell, then internet, then cable, and finally streaming – I paid little attention to them.

I found myself looking forward to the quiet time between dinner and bed when I could read in my recliner. Then, I started taking a book to bed. Finally, I did something I hadn’t done in years… read a book at the breakfast table.

Of course, the timing for the renewal of my love affair with reading could not have been better.

The days are rapidly shortening. The nights are growing cooler and more crisp. Frost cannot be far behind.

And no, I don’t have a small wood-burning fireplace in my living room, but I do have a set of Buck Stove gas logs that cast a cheery glow and that can quickly make the room snuggly warm.

So, throw a quilt over my legs. Place a mug of hot chocolate on the side table, turn off the television, and hand me a good book.

I’m ready for autumn.